


Wintry

by redtoblack



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), Sick Day (ish), Soft & Cozy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28517394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoblack/pseuds/redtoblack
Summary: It sucks that Quentin has to miss the first snow of the season - luckily Eliot is all too happy to keep him company.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	Wintry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoko_onchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/gifts).



> With love - have some snow and coziness.
> 
> Thank you grimweather for betaing!

“I can’t believe I’m missing the first snow.”

Humming his agreement, Eliot doesn’t turn to face Quentin. He won’t have moved from his spot by the window, fingers curled mournfully over the sill and nose nearly pressed to the glass. Like a cat stalking the fluffy snow even though he can’t get to it.

“I don’t even _feel_ sick. This _sucks._ So _much._ ”

Eliot lifts smooth ceramic to his lips, testing the honey-to-tea ratio. Quentin likes it sweet — needs another spoonful or two.

“Are you _sure_ I can’t —”

“Doctor’s orders, Q, you are going to rest. And that means definitely no snow,” Eliot chides, stooping to put away the jar of honey and hip-checking the cabinet closed on his way over to the bed. Quentin grumbles, which probably shouldn’t make Eliot smile, but. It does. Surprising precisely no one, least of all Eliot. Because Q’s sick, even though he still promises he’s not feeling any of the symptoms, Eliot gave him one of his fuzziest sweatshirts to keep cozy. He slept in it. Is still wearing it, all rumpled fabric and sweater paws, as Eliot settles beside him on the bed and hands him the mug of tea.

“Thank you,” Quentin says, glancing eyes earnest as he wraps his covered palms around the hot ceramic. Bright, but not fever-bright, not glassy or red; no flush on his cheeks, just a little on his nose where he has indeed been pressing it to the window; hands steady around his drink; posture straight over his folded knees, not hunched like it would be if he were having stomach pain.

Satisfied, Eliot cozies up behind him, one arm around his sturdy shoulders, to look out at the patterns the wind is making in the flurries outside. You would think Quentin had his fill of snow, growing up in Jersey, but it’s like every year he forgets about it. He gets so taken up by the balmy summers, the crisp, crackling autumns of their home in the Crooked-Edge Woods, that by the time winter comes back around, every first snow is like he’s discovering magic all over again.

They always go out in it together, walking in the woods as crystalline powder settles on branches and hair and tongues, making sculptures and snowballs and sculptures with snow balls in the yard and taking some of them down because Quentin doesn’t want to startle the neighbors. Even once they had Teddy, and he was too little to take outside when the weather was harsh, they would all take turns going out when the silver-grey sky opened overhead.

It’s a good thing Teddy loves the outdoors, taking to it like a fish to water — it wasn’t long before they could stop worrying about taking turns, instead bundling him up in spare fabrics and warming spells and going out as a family. Ari’s out there with him now, frolicking among the snowflakes and stomping on iced-over puddles. They’ve even built a snow — uh, merchant, it appears, if Eliot has to guess based on the vaguely wagon-shaped pile next to the figure. 

Contentment, warm and full, sits in his chest with Quentin under his arm and watching Ari lift a giggling Teddy in a big circle. But his skin still itches to feel the season’s hello drifting down, the biting wind, the melting icicles. He’s going to crack soon, probably. But not yet. It’ll still be snowing for a while, and Eliot wants to keep Quentin company for longer.

The memory from a few days ago is still all too fresh — Quentin coming home from the market with chills, dizziness, and cramping, full-on fever setting in over the next hour. They guessed it was an unfamiliar fruit he’d tried on the way, but when his symptoms only worsened by nightfall, Eliot hurried out under the stars, breath puffing in the cold, knuckles stiff and red as he knocked on the door of the nearest healer. Her prompt visit confirmed their guess: the poisonous skin of, apparently, the redbuckle fruit, which could cause long-term damage but was easily remedied since they’d been quick. She provided a potion which removed his symptoms, but it came with a clear warning: his body was still fighting the poison, even though he couldn’t feel it. The symptoms would return fourfold under any physical duress.

This morning, they all awoke in a tangle, and Teddy’s excited gasp alerted his parents to the winter saying good morning through the window. Ari kissed Quentin soundly as she got up, giving Eliot a knowing smile when he stayed in bed and buried Quentin’s pouting against his chest.

Nearly half of the day has passed now, and they’ve hardly moved, Quentin no farther than the bathroom and Eliot no farther than the kitchen. A steady supply of tea and barley soup has kept them both in good spirits, along with a cheerfully crackling fire chasing the chill away.

“You know,” Eliot murmurs into Quentin’s hair, “if you actually rest then you might be fine to go out again in a couple of days.”

He sighs, sounding very put-upon, the rumbling vibration of it spreading into Eliot’s shoulder. An arm detaches from his steaming drink to wrap around Eliot’s back, smoothing idle strokes across a few knobs of his spine. Eliot wiggles into the feeling, warm, gentle pressure against his back. Then Quentin’s hand drifts lower, brushing along the line of sensitive skin at the top of his hips.

“I don’t think that counts as rest,” he says mildly, already seeing exactly how this will play out.

Sure enough, Quentin pulls away with a frown. “Okay, but I can at least get _you_ off though.”

“Physical duress, Quentin.”

“ _Duress?_ ” he repeats, indignant.

“We don’t want to risk getting your heart rate up.”

“I can, like, watch you come without getting my heart rate up.”

Eliot levels him with a look. Raised eyebrows, hint of amusement. Probably some smugness in there too, he can’t help it.

The look is eye-rolled away. “Okay, fine, I did...hear that coming out of my mouth. I just hate feeling like I can’t _do_ anything.”

Eliot pulls him closer again, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I know. But recovering _is_ doing something, and once you get through it, you can do all the things.”

“Wow, all the things, huh,” he mutters, turning in towards Eliot as he nudges them horizontal on the bed. “That’s, like, a lot of things.”

“Mmhm.”

He can still see out the window at this angle, steam from the mug wisping against the cold panes of glass and making condensation, the sky pale and thick with promise against the bare, sleeping treetops. Snow still spirals down from every direction, and the red tip of Ari’s cold-weather-hat bobs between the drifts at the bottom edge of the view.

“Sing something for me?” Quentin asks, after a minute.

“Of course,” he answers, giving his shoulder a light squeeze, and thinks. Sings: " _just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down —_ "

— which earns him a smack on the arm. He chuckles and gives Quentin’s hair a couple of placating strokes.

“Okay, alright. What about this.”

And he sings more suitable songs until Quentin’s breath evens into gentle slumber, finally giving his body the rest it needs. Eliot stays, watching the wind and the winter as they softly rage outside, heart singing with each glimpse of scarlet-blotched cheeks when Ari and Teddy come into view. Every inhale washes him in Quentin’s quiet musk, and every exhale compresses his chest a little, carrying Quentin that much closer to him. The snow can wait a little longer.


End file.
